


Morning After

by StupidBolts



Category: Transformers, Transformers Fall of Cybertron
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Night after, One Night Stand, if a transformer is drunk does it count as a DUI?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-12-08 02:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StupidBolts/pseuds/StupidBolts
Summary: He stared at him for a solid minute, then pushed aside the appropriate protocol for an Autobot general for a second. “You're an absolute bastard.”“Knew you'd always wanted to say that to me.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prequel to Lilt in the Action, I suppose. All this is set between the events of War for Cybertron and Fall of Cybertron.

Optimus Prime's head felt like an entire Decepticon drop ship had been deployed right on top of it. For a good long moment, he was just swimming in the dizzy whirlpool inside his own helm, while his internals struggled to get a clear reading on his situation. When they finally began to catch up, the first reading that popped into view was the notation that he was lying prone. His initial reaction was to try and sit up, but reason dictated that he might be better off down. Snipers or soldiers roaming the field would immediately gun him down in his stupor. Best to get his optics online first.

The next few readings were all background information. Temperature, ammunition reserves, energon levels, and that something slightly heavy was lying on his abdomen. Not heavy enough to crush his armour, but pushing it off would be a mild inconvenience.

He sifted through his memory banks, trying to recollect what had happened before he blacked out. An energon raid? No. Decepticon ambush? No. Storage facility accident? He had been unfortunate enough to be standing under a crate when a crane gave out once. Luckily Jazz had shoved him out of the way before it flattened him. Instead, his only injury was a nasty concussion from hitting the corner of an ammo crate on the way down. His lieutenant had insisted, upon being berated and cornered by Ratchet, that a dizzy Prime was better than a flat one.

No, his last memory had been in his office. Sideswipe had reported a phenomenal find in one of the underground tunnel systems. A massive stash of energon and arms, stored away by Decepticon forces before the Autobots' last raid wiped out that particular underground party. Spoils for the taking. And that stash had been just what they needed to push the majority of Megatron's forces out of the west of Iacon. A cause for celebration his troops had thought, and he could not have agreed more. Never one to deny his army a well earned morale boost, especially in such a rare moment of security, Optimus authorised his troops to celebrate. Jazz, of course, had immediately managed to shanghai his way into getting the troops high grade. From where, Optimus didn't know, but would pester his right hand about later.

He sighed contentedly. Yes, that was right. Jazz had given him a cube of high grade in his office. And much to his embarrassment, Orion had never had the highest constitution for the stuff. Being a Prime did not heighten his tolerance.

A disgruntled smile formed under his mask. His lieutenant would never let him hear the end of it. Knowing Jazz, he had probably simply left the Prime in an undignified heap on his office floor, the slagger. Or Ironhide had found him and dragged him back to his quarters. Hopefully before he could make a fool of himself. Dion told him he was prone to singing when he was overcharged. Making another sigh, this time preparing himself for either scenario, he finally kick started the rest of his systems, and opened his optics.

He stared at Grimlock's helm, rested comfortably on his shoulder, one arm looped around his middle and the other pillowing Prime's helm. Optimus froze like he was staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle, inhaling as if to speak but only shutting his mouth with a terrified squeak. Very dignified.

The lumbering giant snored quietly, almost softly. Not awake, not awake. Optimus very gingerly lifted his free arm, carefully pushing at a wrist the size of his own thigh to try and loosen the hold a bit more. Grimlock seemed reluctant, tightening his hold minutely every time Optimus managed to move it aside more, though not too much. Prime eventually managed to wiggle his other arm free, and finally succeeded in freeing himself and rolling away from the Dinobot. And having a short fall.

He blinked, face down on a grubby floor, and taking a moment to take in their surroundings. From the oversized swords mounted on the wall, to the gigantic throne in front of the wall mounted vis-screen and the pile of weapons and ammunition haphazardly dumped in a corner, Optimus immediately realised they were in Grimlock's quarters. He looked back up from where he came, staring as Grimlock grumbled in his sleep, and shifted in the massive berth.

Optimus licked his lips, slowly and carefully shifting onto his knees, and gradually to his feet, never taking his rabbit in headlights look off Grimlock. He took a step back, when an alert went off in his processor. He looked straight down, staring dumbly at his own gearbox hanging out freely. His bodily energon somehow ran cold and boiled hot in his tubes simultaneously. He grasped at his panels, rying to cover himself. He made a panicked sound, turning away from the berth slightly, and finally activated the closing mechanism and shutting himself away. Still, his servos covered his groin in a moment of horror, and when he looked back at the juggernaut, Grimlock was staring right back.

For a spark stopping moment, they just stared. Not a word was uttered, until Grimlock sighed irritably and rolled onto his back, rubbing at his optics.

“Ohh... well, that's not a face I ever wanted to wake up to.”

Optimus immediately shot to the other side of the room, and Grimlock glanced back in bemusement. “What are you doing?” Optimus couldn't find his voice, he just stared for a moment longer, then his eyes started flicking around in his panic, like he was searching for an escape route. “You look like you're about to be run over by a marauder.”

“I really wish I was.” Grimlock scoffed, and went back to nursing his helm.

“Ah, Primus...” The larger mech seemed worse for a hangover than Prime. But Optimus could easily imagine Grimlock to be a heavy drinker. “Slaggin' head...” 

The awkwardness was palpable.

“How much did you drink last night?,” Optimus blurted out, still gripping a ridge in the wall with one hand.

“I tried a few of Slug's mixes... then had a drinkin' contest with Sideswipe.” Optimus scowled.

“I authorised moderate drinking.”

“You can moderate my aft...” He paused, then looked over at the Prime. “Hey, maybe you already did.”

“Primus willing, you just miraculously showed your fluffy side and decided to use me as a teddy bear.”

“That would mean you're just a pervert who sleeps with his panels open.”

Optimus made a strangled grunt, shaking his head to try and get rid of that rushing feeling. He looked back over. “... what do you remember about last night?”

“Up until Sideswipe passing out and me winning our bet?” The big guy shrugged. “Not a slaggin' thing.”

“Neither do I... I suppose it's possible nothing... happened...!”

“Possibly. Not likely, but possibly.” Optimus winced.

The Prime sighed and let his shoulders slump, taking a step away from the wall. “... well, this... will make working together in the future awkward.”

“No more than it already was.” Grimlock seemed to be going back to sleep. Optimus blinked.

“Why wouldn't it?”

“Why would it?”

Prime puffed up his chest, feeling a little stung at that dismissive tone. As to why, well, he felt any encounter quite like this should be considered and approached carefully. But tact was never Grimlock's strong point. He knew he should not be surprised, but the idea of simply being tossed aside jabbed right in his circuits. “Is this how you treat everyone you sleep with?”

“Only the one night stands.”

He stared at him for a solid minute, then pushed aside the appropriate protocol for an Autobot general for a second. “You're an absolute bastard.”

“Knew you'd always wanted to say that to me.”

Optimus huffed, then turned with an indignant sharpness, and promptly stumbled as he tried to walk out. He grabbed hold of a cabinet as a lance of pain wrenched up his spinal column, and he briefly glanced back at Grimlock when he heard the larger mech sit up suddenly. They stared at one another again, and there was a change of light in Grimlock's visor that made Prime's face heat up. He was being laughed at.

“Going to have trouble sitting down, Prime?”

He straightened up, prepared for the twinge and dealing with it accordingly. He then attempted to make his exit again, but despite his efforts he could do very little more than limp to the door.

The trek down the corridor to his office had never felt quite so long and humiliating. He kept his head down and tried to walk as straight as he could. At the very least, he wished he could have handled that walk of shame with more dignity, but at least he knew Grimlock wouldn't be spreading the news around. The other bots on his team were the type to mock and tease their leader for bunking with “Goody-Two-Tyres-Prime”. 

“Mornin', Prime!” He looked up to see Jazz standing outside his office, hands on his hips and looking far too proud for a bot with red paint ground into his stark white chassis. Optimus looked bemused for a moment, then suddenly panicked when he realised he hadn't checked for any flecks of bronze and brown paint on him. “Ain't you a sight for sore eyes!”

“My eyes are very sore... no thanks to you.”

“Aw, was just a few shots, boss! I was gonna take you back to your room, but I lost you somewhere along the way.” Jazz grinned, watching Prime punch in his door's activation code. “Somethin' to do with Cliff and a reeeeal dark utlity closet. You end up in the storage bay with Ironhide?”

“Ironhide was in the storage bay?”

“Passed out heavier than a Con under an energon tanker. Ratchet was not happy.” Optimus chuckled a little.

“No, I didn't pass out in the storage bay.”

“Where'd you end up?”

“You'll laugh.” He limped into his office, not making an effort to conceal it at this point. Jazz did a double take, then slowly began to grin.

“Oh... ohh--!”

“So anyway, I'm putting a ban on you organising any sort of celebrations in the future.”

“Oh come on, who else knows how to party like Jazz?”

“I'm leaving it to Ratchet to divvy out high grade rations next time.” He leaned against his desk and enjoyed the mirthful feeling as Jazz gave him a look of mortified disbelief.

“You've got to be kidding. Here I am unintentionally getting you laid and you go and pull this on your old buddy. That's cold, boss, real cold.”

“I don't entirely believe the 'unintentional' part, so consider it pay back.”

“It can't have been that bad.”

Optimus stared at him.

“... that bad?”

“That bad. Now do me a favour and never bring this up again, for the sake of my self-esteem.” Optimus rubbed at his eyes with a heavy huff through his engine.

“Oh damn, bad morning after talk?”

“A very uncomfortable one.”

“Damn. Optimus Prime taking the walk of shame.”

He huffed in exasperation, lolling his head back. “I just want to forget it happened. Obviously I've got a pretty big reminder, and probably will for a couple of days, but once I can walk straight again I'd like to pretend this never happened at all.”

“What about your mystery bot?”

“I'm pretty sure he's already forgotten.” Jazz frowned, placing his hands akimbo once again.

“Think you just told me more than you meant to there, boss. Not many bots on this station that would wake up next to you and be eager to forget it.” Optimus shrugged slightly.

“If it were any of those other bots, I might not feel quite so sour about it.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Nevermind. Let's keep this between us, yes?”

“You got it.” Jazz gave him a slight salute, and chose not to make a comment on how Optimus seemed to be refusing to sit down.


	2. I'll Make You a Deal

"Listen, sometimes I think you do this on purpose."

"I definitely do." Optimus gave Grimlock a disgruntled look from behind his desk, squinting up at the larger mech who refused to sit down like a civilised person.

"Well that's a shame, because if you keep up this destructive behaviour I'll have to suspend you."

"Suspend me?," Grimlock snorted. "What'll you do, send me to my room?"

"If I have to."

"We're at war, Pax. You treat your soldiers like children it'll come back to bite you in the ass."

"Only the ones childish enough to try." They glared at one another, maintaining the indifferent body language, Grimlock with his arms crossed and Prime with his hands folded on the desk. "Now, are you going to tell me what the problem is, or are you going to keep acting like an irrational teenager trying to compensate for something?"

"Was that a dirty joke?" Grimlock sounded sarcastically incredulous. "From you?"

"I'm capable of them, yes, I spend a large portion of my time with Jazz."

"Fair enough." Grimlock had been on the receiving end of Jazz's emasculating jokes plenty of times. More so recently in fact. "You're my problem."

"Are you sure?" Optimus looked wearily up at him with a sigh. "You can't come up with anything more creative than that?"

"Whadya want me to say?," Grimlock growled. "Oh well I'm just peachy-hunky-dory, boss! Well aside from this tiny bit of bend up circuitry in my left ass cheek, other than that I'm fraggin' spiffy!"

Optimus's optic twitched, neck bowing a little and lowering him to a strange, exhausted looking hunker over the edge of his desk. "Go see Ratchet, I'd love to watch him kick your ass into shape." Grimlock threw his arms up, turning and storming the short distance to the one-way window overlooking the lower levels of the base. He glared at the other Autobots on the cargo, medbay and docking levels, and knew perfectly well none of them would even know he was there.

"Look, I don't want to fight you," Optimus sighed, leaning back in a lazy slump in his seat and rubbing at the developing mini-Grimlock in his head. Incidentally, a mini-Grimlock was the affectionate pet name he had dubbed the special kind of headaches he got when – and only when – he had to engage in conversation with the lumbering incarnation of stubbornness itself. "I just want to know how to resolve this 'charging off to get yourself killed' issue with minimal yelling."

"I don't go to get myself killed. I'll always come back."

"Mores the pity." Grimlock looked sharply over his shoulder at the low grumble, staring into the blunt and unimpressed expression of a very tired Prime.

"You want me dead?"

"Sometimes. But not really, not deeply at any rate," Optimus sighed deeply, rubbing his optics as the lids got heavier and heavier every passing second. Grim looked back out the window. "I do feel like letting a group of Decepticons kick you to scrap sometimes. Maybe it would do your unjustified pride some good." The larger mech let a low chuckle gurgle in his throat.

"Sometimes I wanna watch the same thing happen to you, just to watch the high and mighty Optimus Prime holding a collection of his own teeth in his hand while simpering on the floor."

"You have a delightful imagination." Grimlock turned aside to look back at Prime properly, watching him begin to lock the drawers on his desk and get ready to call it a day. "If you ever decide to write a novel, do let me know so I can use my new found political power to have every copy burned." Grimlock cocked a brow and snorted.

"You know I don't read or write good."

"Or speak. It was a joke. I'm working on my 'oppressive and cruel dictator' impression for when the war is over. It's also known as 'The Megatron', what do you think?"

"Too light hearted. Just sounds like you being a dick when you're overtired." Optimus chuckled lightly, rubbing his face and optics again as he stood up.

"I'm sorry, you're right, that was unnecessary," he mumbled behind his palms. "Come back in the morning, we'll discuss this properly then."

Grimlock growled. "You're pulling me in again?" Optimus dropped his head back to give an exasperated sigh at the ceiling. "How early?"

"I don't know, have breakfast first at least." Grimlock's brow furrowed.

"When was the last time you had breakfast, you hypocrite?," he retorted.

"That was a big word for you, I'm impressed... when we first ran out of zinc plates. I like those." Grimlock gave Prime a stern look, mood shifting from begrudging brothers in arms to something more scolding. Optimus looked away awkwardly.

"When's the last time you went to sleep?"

Prime had to think about it for a moment. As far as he could remember, it was a few weeks ago... he licked his lips awkwardly under his mask, no need to bring up that little hiccup between them again."What day is it?," he joked. Grimlock growled and prowled towards the desk, slamming a hand on one end and making the other end jump up and a pot of pencils topple over.

"There's something that's pissing me off, you want to start solving this rebellion problem? Start taking better slaggin' care of yourself." He glared the Prime down. "What good is a leader with a rumbling tank who can't keep his eyes open?"

"That's not fair, it only starts rumbling when I think about fuel." He avoided Grimlock's scowl uncomfortably. "Which troops need more than I do."

"Rations exist. Use 'em before I tell Ratchet on you." Optimus looked up at him in disbelief. They stared at each other for a minute. "I'll do it."

"You wouldn't...!"

"Don't test me." Optimus looked back down at his desk, almost sulking.

"This was supposed to be a lecture for you, not me."

"Stop doing dumb shit that even I can call you out for then." Optimus shrugged, he had to give him that one.

“Running an entire military operation on a dying planet is just a tad overwhelming, even with the phenomenal officers I have to hand.” He looked at the floor rather than Grimlock. “Present company excluded.”

“Screw you too.”

“I'm doing my best, everyone knows and appreciates it. Except you.” He glared up at the larger mech, who scowled right back. “I don't feel any need to prove myself to you, but you acting like a hyper aggressive hothead just piles on the anxiety.”

“Anxiety?” Optimus shrugged again, shaking his head as he looked away. Grimlock studied him closely with that new bit of information. “That why you're not sleeping good?”

“That and the all-encompassing guilt that I'm incapable of saving our planet and am responsible for the deaths of millions of Cybertronians, yes.” Grimlock's head made a peculiar little crick movement to the side, like a tick he didn't quite have control of. He stared at the side of the Prime's head for a good long minute.

“Who the fuck could have saved this shithole?,” he grunted lowly. “Least Megatron doesn't have the place.”

“Such poetry.” Prime sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck with both hands, rolling his shoulders at the same time. “I don't want to talk about this, least of all with you. If you're honestly trying to make me feel better, stop doing things that make me need to drag you in here. It's a waste of both our times.”

“Why bother? Just lemme go do my thing until I die, then I'll be out of your hair,” Grim grunted dismissively. That might have been an attempt at humour, but it was honestly hard to tell.

“I know it might come as a shock to you Grimlock, so please feel free to take a seat, but I don't actually want you dead. Despite our prior conversation.”

“Just the slag beaten out of me. I remember.”

Optimus chuckled slightly, one arm dropping to his side but the other hand remaining on his neck. “Zeta thrust this on me and I'm doing my best, what more do you want from me?”

“You doing better for yourself rather than the rest of us.” Optimus slowly turned his head, giving Grimlock the most blunt and unamused look he could muster in his half-asleep state. “Shut up. Don't look at me like that.”

“Are you literally asking me to be more selfish?”

“Yes. I am. You're gonna kill yourself with stress before Megatron even gets his paws on you, be more slagging selfish already.” Grimlock straightened up, still resting his hand on the desk. “I can't stand the selfless hero stereotype you try to play to, coz everything else about you goes against it! How many valiant, knightly heroes in fairy tales make dick jokes when their soldiers piss them off?”

“You read fairy tales?” Grimlock groaned and rubbed his optics in frustration. “Not that I don't appreciate the intention, but I can't be more like you. I'm sorry, I don't think I'm physically capable. And if I was, I'd flat out refuse.”

“Then I'm gonna keep pissing you off.”

“Then I'm going to keep making dick jokes.”

They glared each other down, Grimlock hunching over Prime to try and appear more imposing. It lasted a minute or so, when they both noticed the other's expression had softened. Grimlock heaved an enormous sigh and rubbed heavily at his face. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

“When you let me leave my office and stop breathing down my neck, I very much intend to.” Grimlock threw his arms up, and stomped round Optimus to get to the door. He snapped round suddenly when he was halfway ducked to fit through it, pointing at Prime sharply.

“I mean it. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“Get the fuck out of my office,” Optimus snapped in exasperation, giving Grimlock's shoulder a shove to get him out of the door, closing it behind them and locking up.

“You're being pissy but I know damn well you're gonna completely ignore me,” Grimlock growled. Optimus clonked his forehead against the door suddenly, perhaps a little harder than he intended. “That hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Dumbass.” Still pressing his helm into the door, he slowly turned his exhausted glare up to the larger mech. Grimlock folded his arms. “Gonna keep on at you until you do it.”

“Would you stop drinking if I pestered you about it?,” Prime hissed irritably. He didn't appreciate being harassed passive aggressively.

“Would you go to sleep if I stopped drinking?” Optimus paused, staring at him. He could feel his shoulders sagging more and more by the second.

“... and would you stop drinking if I went to sleep?”

“... probably not cold turkey, but if that's what it takes to get you on a proper sleep schedule.” Prime pushed himself away from the door, looking at a very stiff and uncomfortable Grimlock thoughtfully.

“I probably couldn't just jump right into one straight away anyway. So, I'll ease myself into a decent sleep pattern if you wean yourself off high grade.” He stepped away from the door, tilting his head to give Grimlock a side-long look. “... deal?” The big guy's grip tightened on his biceps.

“Feel like I'm being manipulated here.”

“Likewise. It'd be for the best though, considering how the both of us drinking ended last time. Deal?,” he repeated firmly, tossing in that little verbal smack in the face. Grimlock huffed and let his arms drop to his sides and fidgeting awkwardly on the spot.

“... deal.”

Optimus felt a twinge of triumph, smiling so brightly under his mask that it reached his optics. Grimlock noticed. “Alright. So I'll head straight to bed.”

“And I'll head... I dunno, the Anger Room? Beat the shit out of a punching bag with a picture of your face on it,” Grim huffed. Ironhide had set up the Anger Room with a little convincing from Jazz. A sort of therapeutic space for the troops to let out any stress onto unsuspecting training dummies or targets. Grimlock's squad tended to spend the most time there.

“Good enough for me. Okay then, goodnight, Grimlock.”

“Piss off.” Optimus turned on his heel, and walked with only a slight stagger of exhaustion back down the hallway, heading for his room. Grimlock watched, making sure that he continued walking in the right direction.


	3. Face Pancakes

Grimlock glowered into his half empty mug with the look of a man stranded in the desert with one bottle of water and no sign of civilisation. The evening had been long, but maybe that was because he was far more keenly aware of what was going on than he normally would. He had started the night with two high grades, enough to give his systems a light and pleasant buzz at the very least, but after the second, he'd gotten himself an un-processed midgrade and savoured it to last the rest of the night. The end would come when Slug and Sludge were passed out under a few tables and Swoop was sat on the makeshift bar singing show tunes in that gaudy accent of his. At which point, Grim would toss his flyer over his shoulder, drag Slug back to his room by his ankles, and Snarl would take Sludge back to their room.

Snarl didn't see the appeal of drinking. He said it fogged up his mind in ways he didn't like, made him let his guard down, which he would not accept when Sludge was acting dopier than usual. He was sat beside Grimlock, quiet and observant, glancing between his commanding officer's grimace and the slowly emptying mug in his hand. He didn't say a word, which Grimlock appreciated, but the staring was beginning to get on his nerves. He stomped on Snarl's foot under the table as a warning. Snarl jumped and focused on Sludge instead, who was listening intently to one of Sideswipe's tipsy stories across the room.

An hour or so passed, and Grimlock's mug was still one third full, and Snarl had gone back to glancing. Grim ignored him, he knew how it looked. Peculiar. Plain and simple. He took another small sip, and slowly lowered the mug back down.

Their strike team drank most nights. It was the closest they got to being social with the other troops, and that's the way they liked it. They were brutish, hyper violent jackasses in the eyes of their own fellow soldiers, but buy one of them a drink, and you'll likely be on their good list for a while. It meant no more than not being shoved aside in corridors, and being directed to cover while on the field, but that evidently was enough incentive for some of the troops. It had crossed Grimlock's mind, fleetingly, that perhaps their team wasn't as greatly feared and ridiculed as they'd come to believe. Maybe they were ever so slightly, marginally, minimally... liked. Perhaps one or two troops, the ones that regularly treated them to drinks, were attempting to be somewhat friendly. He didn't entertain the idea often, but he always had to wonder about Sideswipe, Beachcomber or Jazz.

Primus did he wonder about Jazz.

The head of the Black Ops Division certainly had Grimlock's respect, and that wasn't something he threw around lightly. Jazz was friendly, personable, spark strikingly terrifying, and a hundred percent loyal to Optimus. If Jazz didn't want you to know he was right beside you, then you wouldn't. It was unnerving. He was always seemingly cheerful, cracking jokes, passing out drinks, the life of the party. He also had a sharp tongue. The strike team liked Jazz, because he always had a snappy one-liner to put their grouchy commander flat on his bulky behind.

But Grimlock had seen the way Jazz could kill, and wondered if it came down to it, which of them would win in a one on one fight.

When the Black Ops commander slung Sideswipe's arm over his shoulders, baying them a goodnight in that smoothly jolly tone of his, the strike team all waved them off with the closest mood to fondness that they could muster. Grimlock simply raised his near-empty mug to him, and off Jazz went. Grim knew Optimus would be up to date on his part of the bargain.

Now alone, the strike team mellowed, but also got comfortable. They wouldn't have called out their commander in front of Outsider troops or officers, no matter how drunk they were, but they'd all noticed Grimlock decidedly not chugging with them.

“Problem with the tanks, boss?” Swoop plonked himself beside Grim and leaned over his arm to get a look at the sliver of dim purple liquid in his mug. “Only midgrade. Need to see the doc?” Grim gave him a half hearted jab with his elbow, knocking him back against the seat with a wheezy squeak.

“Tanks're fine,” he grumbled.

“You wanna do Ring of Fire?,” Sludge asked giddily, jiggling the stack of crates being used as a table.

“No,” Grim snapped, then quickly sipped his drink and looked down to avoid Sludge's kicked Sharkticon pup look. Not cute by any means, but stupidly innocent enough to make him feel guilty. “Not in the mood,” he added quietly as if that might ease the tension.

“You're purposely being careful of what you're drinking and how much,” Snarl muttered lowly, feeling snide after that snap at Sludge. “You've been doing it for a few nights now, and you're starting to drink less and less.” Grim puffed up a little. He didn't appreciate being cornered, or the unspoken suspicion.

“I'm cutting back, so sue me.” The puzzled looks on their faces asked the clearest question, so he begrudgingly elaborated. “Got a deal with Pax. I drink less, he sleeps more. Simple as that.”

“Deal with Pax?,” Slug bawked, pulling a revolted expression. “You're letting him goad you like that?”

“Fancy word for you, idiot,” Grimlock sneered. “You think I'd make any kind of deal if I thought he was even slightly capable of manipulating me?” Slug glared at him accusingly.

“Think you're the idiot for believing he couldn't.”

“Prime doesn't have a bad circuit in his body, he's Softimus Prime for crying out loud, remember?,” Swoop butted in promptly, ever the mediator. “There's no tricky shit here, sure, but that just means the thing's completely pointless. He gets more sleep and you have less fun?” He frowned. “What's in it for you, boss?”

“A more alert leader who's taking better care of himself.” Grimlock finished his midgrade bitterly.

“Think it'll make him any less of a pansy?,” Slug grunted sarcastically.

“Hell no. But it'll make him a better leader that isn't taking power naps at his desk. He'll be less exhausted and flustered, which means he'll be able to make better and faster decisions. In the long run, having a rubbish but healthy leader is better than an exhausted rubbish one.” The strike team sat thoughtfully, Swoop beginning to nod and grin, while Snarl's shoulders relaxed, gradually getting the picture. Sludge just looked lost.

“But we still hate him, right?” He looked between the others quickly for answers, looking confused and settling his gaze on Snarl, as always. Snarl reached out, patting Sludge's arm.

“We're allies, not friends. That's the difference,” Grimlock grunted, fiddling with his mug irritably. He wanted another drink so bad. “We don't hate them, we don't like them, but let them die because their leader is useless, we're not more allies to them than the Cons. And we're not Cons. We help them survive, they help us kill. Easy. See?”

Sludge still looked a little puzzled, but he seemed to be grasping the concept bit by bit. Doubtless Snarl would talk him through it at a much more patient pace than Grim could manage, and that suited him just fine. Slug however still looked aggravated.

“What's the difference between making a deal and being manipulated? You're still giving in to Pax's terms and getting little to nothing out of it. You're still being controlled, dumbass.”

“No one controls me,” Grimlock growled dangerously, and Slug was wise enough to at least look down, even if that expression didn't change. “What difference does it make to you when you're not even part of the goddamn deal?”

“You'll get him thinking he can get his way with all of us,” Slug grumbled. “He'll get all high and mighty because he's got you wrapped round his finger, just because he let you plough him-” Slug cupped his hands under his nose, the energon pooling in his palms and dripping from his fingers. The edge of the crate now had a face-sized dent in it, and the other strike team members had shuffled out of Grimlock's reach. 

“You don't talk about that.”

“F-orry bo-ff.” 

“You don't get to judge what deals I make with other officers. You're my soldier, not my fucking bonded. You listen to my orders, you follow them. And you don't waste my time and your energy trying to make those pitiful cogs you call a brain turn unless I tell you to.”

“Ye-f bo-ff.”

“Get the fuck out my sight.” Slug pushed away from the crates, slowly stalking out of the room, cradling his broken nose and fractured face plates. The silent tension set in, the remaining three staring at him and waiting. “He was asking for it.”

“Pretty much, boss,” Swoop replied. “He was obviously just begging you to pancake his face into an ammo crate.”

“He was pushing your buttons,” Snarl murmured. “But he was trying to make a point.”

“I think you really hurt him...!,” Sludge mumbled.

Grimlock's back clanged against the wall, his mug slightly crushed. “I'll dump a bunch of thermo rockets by his door tomorrow, give him free target practice time.” The tension eased. Grimlock never said sorry. But he showed it.

“So you're not ever going to drink with us again?,” Sludge asked, leaning closer to get a better look at Grimlock's face.

“No, I will. Just less often. Maybe at parties. He thinks it'll do my temper some good.” He flicked the mug away. It toppled onto its side and rolled off the other side of the crate-table. “Whatever, he's sleeping more, he keeps his word.”

“You sure about that?,” Swoop asked. “The sleeping I mean.”

“Pretty sure. Haven't caught him falling asleep in briefings once for the last few weeks. Jazz noticed anyway. Think he's glad about the deal.” He stared at the Autobot insignia on the crate, half dented from the impact Slug's face left in the metal. Just so he wouldn't have to look any of them in the eye. 

“Think it'll change anything overall?,” Snarl asked, folding his arms over his chest. Grimlock shrugged slowly.

“Dunno. Gives the Autobots a better chance. Maybe. And he'll probably be less likely to be shot in his dopey head. Guess that's the best I can do.”

Swoop and Snarl glanced at each other, a brief moment of silent conversation through eye contact. A bit of unease, a dash of apprehension. The kind of feelings only the two of them ever really considered amongst their little strike team, and confided in one another with.

“If you say so, Grim,” Snarl replied quietly.

“Whatever you gotta do, boss.”

.

“You've been looking a bit perkier lately. Not getting into your office quite as early. It's a good thing, don't look so nervous.” Optimus shrugged and gave Ratchet a half awkward look.

“Your tone makes it hard to tell sometimes.” 

“You sound like Sideswipe. C'mon, what's different?,” the old medic persisted, crossing his arms and keeping the unwavering professional stare on him. Prime rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well, I've been trying to give myself a little extra time to relax. It's wearing on me and I know it, and it'll start effecting my work if I don't start managing it better. So I'm trying to get into a better sleep pattern.”

“Trying?” Optimus sighed, gripping his knee with one hand, while resting his upper body weight on his elbow against the other leg.

“It's not real sleep, not proper sleep. I toss and turn, any foot steps go by outside the door and I wake up again. I keep thinking I hear my name being called from somewhere down the hallway, and any dreams I might have are so vague I can't remember any of them.” He shrugged again and looked up at Ratchet earnestly. “Any ideas? I'd accept anything at this point.” Ratchet rumbled quietly, rubbing his chin in thought. “Maybe sleeping pills?”

Ratchet went through a series of conflicted grimaces, slowly tilting his head from one direction to another. The body language said enough really. “Even if we had any on hand, I'd only give them to you at a serious push. Restless sleep isn't the same as insomnia, which a lot of the troops have. I'd only give pills to the ones with PTSD that aren't already in stasis pods.” Optimus sighed, nodding his head solemnly as he hung it. “Adverse effects of sleeping pills included drowsiness and loss of focus during the day. Those are particularly dangerous side effects to an important military general in the middle of a civil war.”

“I understand, Ratchet. Thank you. I wouldn't have taken them without your recommendation... if we even had any.” Ratchet rested a hand on Prime's shoulder, firm and encouraging.

“Talk to Drift. He's full of slag when it comes to medical treatments, don't even get me started on his half-baked theories on healing crystals, but when it comes to mental and emotional health you could do much worse. All that self-care and positive thinking.” Optimus smiled beneath his mask, reaching up to pat the chief medic's wrist.

“I'll do that. Thank you again, old friend.” Ratchet nodded, then let Prime leave without another word. As soon as the office door shut, Optimus sagged with a groan and rubbed his optics. Damn, he'd really been counting on the idea of those sleeping pills. The restless sleep was better than none at all, he'd admit that much, but it was beginning to frustrate him that he was just completely incapable of fully being at rest.

He trudged back to his office, and as per usual, Jazz was looming halfway down the corridor. Just when he needed him most, but least wanted to see him.

“Well hey there sleepin' beauty!” Prime gave him a put upon look. “Something not right with the old ticker?”

“Nothing more than usual, why?”

“Little birdie told me you were seen heading into and out of Ratchet's office while he was off duty. Somethin' super personal, or there some kinda juicy scandal I'm completely offended I wasn't informed of?” Once again, Optimus fixed his third in command with a long, vaguely annoyed look. “Personal. Gotcha.”

“I'm just having trouble sleeping.” He let them into his office, heading straight for his desk chair and slumping in it. Jazz grabbed the back of it and gave it a light push to spin Prime round to face the window sill, which was Jazz's preferred seat. “I was asking Ratchet for medical advise, like I'm supposed to.”

“And what he say?”

“'We don't have sleeping pills, and I wouldn't give them to you if we did'.” He dropped his head back in exasperation. “I appreciate his concern, but I'm going crazy.”

“You gotta catch up man, Grim's pullin' ahead of you in this lil' bet of yours.”

“It's not a bet Jazz, it's a deal. But you're right, I need to uphold my end of it and I'm failing...” He rubbed at his eyes, and kept his hand there. “... how much did he drink tonight?”

“Two high grades and a midgrade, and ate some steel chips. Also had Slug eat the corner of an ammo crate for talkin' smack.” Optimus lifted his head in alarm.

“He hit Slug?”

“I mean, Slug was kinda askin' for it with the way things were going, if you asked me. He ain't no uglier than before with his nose all mashed up.”

“Primus... he did that in front of you?”

“Hell no.” Optimus stared at Jazz.

“... you need to stop spying on people, this is why you have no real friends.”

“I got you, and you're stuck with me 'til the end of time, my man.” He pointed and fired finger guns at the Prime, grinning cheekily. “But for real, who needs other friends when I got you and Cliff.”

“That's both touching and worrying at the same time.” Jazz just shrugged with that look of faux playfulness that only he could muster, and only Optimus knew was a farce. Prime sighed, optics dimming and making him appear far older than he actually was. “I'm just so tired, Jazz.”

“I know, man.”

“I close my eyes and all I hear are the screams. I hear the gun fire, I hear Zeta and Elita. I let myself sleep and see him standing over me, gloating all puffed up and giving his melodramatic speeches about... destiny and... 'peace through tyranny',” he spat the words like they were poison. He dropped his face into his hands. “And I can't stay asleep through that, I just can't.”

“I get you man, I do. I see him too. See him holding 'Raj's head like a trophy up on that goddamn tower, got that speech echoing in my head.” Jazz lowered his gaze to the floor, the ever glowing aura of bouncy, fun energy withering away to a dour shadow hanging over him. “Makes me wanna scream.”

“How do you deal with that?,” Optimus asked lowly, staring at him. “You always manage to be full of energy. What do you do, hook yourself up to the mains?”

“Sort of.” Jazz rolled his neck and straightened up. “Cliff.”

“I don't want to hear about you hooking yourself up to Cliffjumper.”

Jazz smiled wryly, shrugging. “Sometimes he just needs to be in the room. I'll take a nap, and all's peaceful in dream land.”

“That's very poetic.”

“On the rough nights though, gotta have him all curled up next to me. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't ask. Think he doesn't want to know.”

“Anything that makes you scream, if I didn't already know what it was, I wouldn't want to.” Jazz shrugged again.

“I can't get no sleep without him. That's my trick.”

“I'd ask if I could borrow him, but...”

“I'll fight you.” They grinned at each other.

“Think I'd win.”

“You wanna wager on that?”

“No, you cheat.” Optimus slumped in his seat. Terrible for his posture, he knew, but Ironhide wasn't there to tell him to sit up. “Knowing you though, there's probably very little sleeping going on.”

“That's my other trick.”

They chuckled together quietly.


	4. Conference Meeting

Optimus stared at the datapad in front of him with the dutiful attentiveness of a general. Prowl droned on and on with no end in sight, even Ironhide looked like he was falling asleep. Ratchet elbowed him sharply every time he started to droop. The old couple seemed to have perfected the smooth process of keeping each other awake without anyone who wasn’t specifically watching them noticing. Grimlock was watching. Grimlock was watching everything and anything but Prowl’s presentation. He listened to anything but Perceptor’s 'expert analysis' of the synthetic energon and recycling program he and Beachcomber had proposed three months ago. Optimus glanced at Grimlock.

Optimus started patiently tapping his pen in a rhythm.

Grimlock slowly turned his head a touch, then strained his optics as far to the side as they would go to watch Optimus’s hand. He watched it tap, tap, tap. It left a mess of dots on his pad in no particular pattern.

Grim’s brow furrowed, he knew that tune. Something recent. Well, recent considering the war. It made him think of Vos, great sweeping skyscrapers, lowest pollution rate, corrupted local council.

It struck him. A little femme musician. Jazz loved her. He struggled for her name, it began with an ‘S’. Stirling, her name was Stirling. The tune was called Electric Daisy, he’d heard it on radio waves a week before the war broke out, sitting in the quietest pub you ever saw on the Cogsworth Canal side. Nicest drink he’d ever had on his own.

Perceptor finished his presentation, and Optimus stopped tapping. The Prime politely gave his honest opinion on the matter, pen clasped between his neatly folded hands. It was the calmest put down Grimlock had ever heard, so delicately put that Perceptor didn’t even have the urge to look disappointed.

Grimlock would have told him it was a waste of time.

Hoist stepped up next. Grimlock didn’t see Hoist very often, he usually scuttled around in the lower maintenance levels. He was small and grungy and excitable. Grimlock wanted to like him, but not inside meetings. He hated everyone in meetings.

Optimus started tapping again.

Grim turned his head right towards him, staring at his hand. It was a different tune this time. He tapped different sections of his pad for different pitches, changing tempo every now and then. It was something older.

Easy, Iacon’s Sonata. It would be played at the start of celebrations, festivals and holiday events. He remembered those from when he was young. Partying with friends, drinking themselves stupid. They’d go looking for trouble, but never start it. Violent drunks pushing around party goers or harassing pretty bystanders. They’d get one wallop and a turf war would practically break out. Grimlock was never the peaceful type, but he wasn’t an enabler for that kind of behaviour. He wouldn’t stand for it. Not even among the Autobot ranks.

Wheeljack stepped up next. Grimlock liked Wheeljack. Jackie stocked the Autobot military with all sorts of creative and potentially illegal elements, were they in peace time. Optimus always had a put upon tenseness when Wheeljack got going. He liked him as much as any of his soldiers, but the nutty old mech had a habit of talking over superior officers when he went on a tirade.

Just as Wheeljack set up his presentation for his weird and what Grimlock personally thought were wonderful devices, Grimlock started tapping his finger on the desktop. Optimus’s antennae twitched, head turning to him for a fraction of a second then back forward. His shoulders went very still, and Grimlock smiled under his mask. He had to know this one. It was one of Jazz’s favourites, played at the after party of nearly every drinking night. Optimus listened. His antenna tilted back further and further, brow furrowing, thinking and thinking. Trying to place the tune.

In The Next Room by Neon Trek. The Prime’s antennas snapped upright and his optics flashed in a smile, and Grimlock knew he’d gotten it. He wondered if it made him think of Jazz. He didn’t know how long they’d known one another. Maybe before the war, maybe they met through it. Did it remind Prime of his friend’s well meant efforts to lower everyone into a jolly calmness after heavy drinking to wash away the weight of battle and blood, or of a merrier time. Grimlock wondered, and didn’t notice Wheeljack had finished his talk until Optimus once again gently explained why acid grenades weren’t really all that practical.

The meeting ended. Everyone filed out of the makeshift conference room. It was nothing more than an empty cell in the brig with a flimsy fold out table and various mismatched chairs scattered around it.

Optimus saw everyone off, then looked up at Grimlock. He smiled with his optics and gave him a curt nod. The Prime turned, and Grimlock watched him walk to the exit, humming that smooth yet bouncy tune Grimlock evidently had gotten stuck in his head. Grimlock craned his head to one side, watching the slight pep in his steps as he climbed the stairs. He'd put him in a good mood, imagine that.

The lumbering strike commander followed a few moments later, heading towards the cargo holds rather than the offices. He had to banter with Grapple and Sideswipe for a few breems before he got what he wanted, but got it he did. He grunted a farewell as they uneasily watched him trudge away with his arms full of his dangerous prize, and made his way down to the lower dorm levels.

He glowered at Slug's door. Beaten up, same as every other door on this level, with a red hand print slapped in the middle. Always had to be different. He began stacking the thermo rocket packs on top of one another. As he placed the last one down, the door swept open and Slug very nearly walked into his commander's broad shoulder.

They both took several stricken steps back from each other, staring and posturing for all the good it would do, until Slug quickly glanced at the rockets. He'd gotten his nose repaired, mostly. It was still crooked and the sealant was still fresh, but their team wasn't the type to shy away from scars. Even ones they'd inflicted upon each other. Slug pursed his lips and scowled at him like a scolded child.

“Don't gimme that fuckin' look,” Grim growled. “M'tryna be nice.”

“Yeah.” Slug stooped down, picking up the rockets to tuck under his arm. “Big daddy Grimsy feelin' all guilty for smackin' 'is kids around.” Grimlock groaned and rolled his shoulder. Swoop started the 'big daddy' joke in the squad and for every time it was used, the flyer got a punch in the gut. A sacrifice, he claimed, he was willing to give.

“You want the free time or not?,” he snapped. “I can give it to Sludge.”

“Yeah I want it.” Slug glared at the floor, now deciding he didn't want to make eye contact just to hammer the guilt in harder.

“Kay. Fine. Have it.” Grimlock turned to look down the corridor to steel himself, squinting at the tiny wall light at the very end. He hunched his shoulders and leaned his head down to try and meet Slug's gaze. “He isn't manipulating me.”

“Don't care what he does to you.” The stiff tone said otherwise, but Grimlock wasn't the type to try and pry what someone wanted to say out of them. Either they said it or they didn't, he had better things to do. 

“And you don't take orders from him, you take 'em from me, get it?” Slug nodded slowly. “So you don't have to make any kinda deals with him unless you actually want to.”

“We got a reputation here, Grim.”

“Yeah, for bein' dull minded crazies that headbutt Decepticon berserkers in the face.” That earned a half smirk and Grimlock felt a little less tense.

“That was a good one.”

“That thick head if yours has to be good for something.” Slug pushed him. Grimlock pushed him back. “I kept that crate. Think I'll put it on my shelf.”

“What crate?”

“The one with your face print in it.” His most hot headed, and frustrating bot looked him in the eye all of a sudden, scowling with an edge of challenge. Good.

“Dickhead.”

“It's prettier to look at than your mug.”

Slug gave him another push and it suddenly turned into a half playful, half annoyed shoving match in the corridor, up until Slug dropped one of the thermo packs. Grimlock immediately shoved Slug back, ready to toss him as far as he could if the pack went off as they both stared at it for a long moment. The pack just sat there glowing invitingly, just begging to be loaded and fired. They both relaxed.

Grimlock gave Slug a light punch in the shoulder. “Free time. Go have it.”

“Can't right now.” Grimlock tilted his head at him. “Got a date.”

“Who'd date you?” Slug shrugged and fidgeted for a second. “Actually I don't wanna know. Don't get knocked up.” The rockets got shoved back into his arms. “I mean it,” he bellowed after him as he stomped away. “Use protection. Watch your drink. Don't talk to strangers!”

“Shut the fuck up, Grim.”

“Big daddy only wants what's best for you!” Slug rounded the corner. Grimlock lolled his head to one side, amused with himself, then stepped inside Slug's quarters to stack the rockets on his berth. Place was a tip, but he wasn't one to judge. Ironhide barked at all of them to clean up their rooms like some crotchety old grandparent. He didn't seem to fully understand how little time Grimlock actually spent in his own quarters. It might as well have been a storage chest with a berth on top of it, because that's all his room was good for as far as he was concerned.

He shut the door behind him, plucking the dropped rocket pack up off the floor. He'd have to take it to Wheeljack for proper disposal now. Couldn't risk it potentially going off when it wasn't supposed to now the volatile chemicals had gotten jostled all of a sudden. What a waste.

.

“How many hours did you get last night?” Optimus squinted thoughtfully, trying to remember all the moments he'd glanced at his internal clock throughout the night.

“... three.” Ratchet huffed slowly through his nose, rubbing his chin. “So that makes...”

“Seven hours sleep in ten days.” The old medic crossed his arms over his chest. “You can never make my job easy, can you.”

“Sorry, old friend.” Optimus looked considerably sheepish. Ratchet shook his head then looked up to the wall mounted vis-screen where Drift watched them from. “Any suggestions, hippie boy?” A brief smile crossed the samurai's face, eyes thoughtful as he studied Optimus.

“Your posture isn't healthy, general. Putting so much strain on your joints like that will make them unable to relax even when you're lying down.” Optimus sat up straight at that. Ironhide had been pestering him about back problems anyway. “How much low grade and oil are you drinking?”

“As much as rations will allow,” he replied, looking away briefly. Ratchet frowned.

“He's lying.”

“He is?” Drift glanced at Ratchet in surprise.

“He can't look you in the eye, means he's lying.” Optimus suddenly felt like a child being scrutinised by his parents. “How much you drinking Prime?”

“... every once in a while.” Ratchet grumbled and pulled out a notepad, scribbling down notes for Ironhide and Jazz. He didn't trust Optimus to follow medical recommendations on his own, but at least his bonded and the Prime's lieutenant could keep tabs on him.

“Five standard issue cans a day, at least,” Drift chided gently. “Sir, have you every tried meditation?”

“Oh, not in... stellar cycles,” Optimus chuckled. “I courted a femme from Vos that was heavily interested in that sort of thing. You would have liked her, Drift!” The samurai smiled gently again.

“I'm sure I would have, sir. I can just sense Ratchet's cynicism seeping through the screen, but I would recommend meditation with calming music before trying to sleep. Heading straight to bed with your mind still in turmoil from the day can only disrupt your ability to get any rest, after all.”

Optimus fidgeted and gave a nervous chuckle. “Well, uh, I can see how that'd work in theory.”

“He's a general in the middle of a war, Drift. How's a bot who's not half stoned out of his gourd gonna find 'inner peace' in a war zone?,” Ratchet snapped irritably, rubbing at his optics. He didn't disapprove of meditation really, he admitted it was quite an effective stress reliever. For the right person.

“Hm...” Drift looked away, watching something behind the camera as if he were distracted, then looked back at them. “Well, do you have anyone willing to sleep with you, sir?”

Optimus stared at Drift for a good long minute, and Ratchet laughed. “Oh plenty of bots on this station would be chomping at the bit for a chance, I'll tell you.”

“I believe it,” Drift chuckled. “Don't look so surprised, sir. Maybe it doesn't sound like what one would typically consider 'zen', but you shouldn't underestimate the power of a satisfying overload.” Optimus was quiet for a moment longer, then slapped his knees and got up.

“Right, well, I'm off to go walk into Megatron's line of fire.”

“Sit down, Pax, you're not leaving 'til I prescribe you something,” Ratchet snorted, planting a hand on his chest firmly.

Drift gave a warm laugh. “So I take it there's no one you have in mind?”

“No one I can walk up to and say, 'pardon me, but my doctor and personal hippie have advised me to shag regularly for health reasons, would you care to lend your commanding officer a hand?'. No, I think I heard that one in a bar as a kid and my boyfriend punch them so hard in the gut they threw up on the bar stools.”

“That's very specific.”

“Case and point.” Ratchet and Drift glanced at one another, both bemused and entertained. “I still think sleeping pills are the best option, but since they aren't convenient, I'll just carry on as I have been until something more practical crops up.”

Drift huffed and glanced away again. “I will never debunk medical science unless Ratchet tells me otherwise, but I have to say your fixation on use of medicinal drugs is a little troubling.” Ratchet nodded slowly, staring Optimus down with an annoyed expression. “I was going to suggest as an alternative to having an actual partner to help you, self-servicing can prove an effective replacement. At least for a while.”

Optimus bowed his head, a little incredulous and more than a little uncomfortable. “... so your recommendation is jacking off before I go to bed.”

“Pretty much.”

Ratchet's mouth twitched in a vague attempt not to laugh at Prime's awkward fidgeting and shaking of his head, giving his shoulder a light push. “Worth a shot. You could do with letting some steam off.”

“Thank you. Thank you both for your professionalism and deeply calculated medical advice, I appreciate your time.” This time Ratchet did laugh. “For the record, I'm not going to confirm or deny whether or not I follow through.”

“Thank you for your professionalism in turn, sir,” Drift grinned. “I apologise, I really must go now. Hot Rod is starting to get paranoid. Drift, out.” And the feed cut. Optimus rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I'm... struggling to fully comprehend this as an actual medical consultation,” he admitted, looking Ratchet in the eye. The medic shrugged.

“He's a thick headed hippie, but he's probably the most mentally stable person in the blasted army.” He set his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “And I'll be damned if I don't miss him.” Optimus patted his friend's arm.

“He'll return soon, old friend. Then you can enjoy the overwhelming, all encompassing joy of feeling Ironhide getting progressively more and more jealous the longer he's here.”

“Goody.” Ratchet sighed heavily. “Well then. I'd call that a work day.”

“Agreed.” Optimus nodded deeply to his chief medic. “I'll leave you to close up shop, Ratchet. Thank you for your time.” Ratchet patted his back as he headed for the door, quietly closing it behind him.

Yay, prescribed masturbation. His teenaged self would have been thrilled.


End file.
